by Susan Barrie
This time she answered swiftly and eagerly.
“Yes—oh, yes! Yes, I am!”
“And you’ll go on doing so until I get back?”
“I will,” she promised. “But I wish you were coming back sooner—much, much sooner!”
“My little love!” he exclaimed. “At least you don’t wish it more than I do.”
Then he told her that he must ring off because it was late, and he mustn’t keep her awake any longer. She said goodnight to him with a whole world of suppressed yearning for him in her voice, and he told her cheerfully to start looking forward to the moment when he did actually return.
Then she lay down and tried to put behind her the memory of Mrs. Barrington’s curious insistence that however much one was in love it was impossible to remain upon the heights of unadulterated bliss for long, and she wondered why it was that tonight for some reason she could almost believe that what she said was true.
Everything in life was so fleeting. Only a few nights ago Iain had been with her, and she had been living in a kind of wonderland of happiness because he had told her that he loved her. But tonight although there had been so much tenderness in his voice, and he had taken the trouble to ring her all the way from London, she was oppressed by the thought that he was not coming back for a week or more, and the oppression would not let her go.
And Mrs. Barrington had said that he was so kind—he was so kind that he would not willingly be unkind to anyone, and she knew that to be true. Then how much had kindness to do with his being in love with her? How much had pity?
She shut her eyes tightly and decided that she must go to sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Somewhat to her surprise, however, the next week did not drag itself out in quite the unsupportable fashion she had imagined it might do, because there were several more shopping excursions to Inverlochie, and at Auchenwiel preparations for the dance on the 24th were in full swing. Aunt Horatia was determined that it was to be an impressive affair. She surrounded herself with invitation cards, and got Karen to help her send them out. The big ballroom was opened up and subjected to a rigorous spring-clean which involved taking down enormous chandeliers and freeing them from every particle of dust, and the cleaning and polishing of mirrors and white paintwork.
Flowers were ordered, and wines and delicacies from as far afield as Edinburgh, and the white silk with the dainty pattern of silver leaves on it was made up into an enchanting evening gown for Karen, which was nicer when it was completed than either of her two new evening dresses bought in Inverlochie, delectable as they were. The white made the most of her extreme youthfulness, but it also gave her a slightly “untouchable” look, as if she really was as fragile as a piece of rare porcelain, and its lines were so simple that there was nothing in the least pretentious about it.
During that week, too, Aubrey made several more attempts to reproduce a faithful likeness of her, and one that he did in pastel was voted as really excellent. It showed just her head, and the graceful column of her throat, like a flower on a slender stem. Her eyes were enormous in the smallness of her face, and the faint wistfulness about the lines of her mouth was nothing to do with Aubrey’s own imagination.
Aunt Horry declared that it was enchanting, and she was quite sure Iain would think so, too. Aubrey, who appeared really to enjoy himself while Karen consented to sit for him, declared in his uninhibited fashion that the portrait was one of the best things he had done, and there was a certain amount of regret in his eyes whenever he looked at Karen once it was finished, because she was such an absolutely perfect model, and if only she hadn’t been going to marry someone else he could have fallen very deeply in love with her.
Fiona Barrington knew this. She supported him when he offered to drive Karen to her various appointments in Inverlochie, and if Karen hadn’t been so preoccupied with other matters she might have thought it a little odd that Mrs. Barrington approved of “two young things,” as she called them, being flung together, and was willing to forgo outings herself in order that Aubrey should have the opportunity of taking her place.
But, truth to tell, Karen was living in a bewitched world where nothing was absolutely real any longer, and many things passed her by that might otherwise have impressed her. All her thoughts were with Iain, in London, and although a hairdresser worked over her, and a beauty specialist did something to her complexion which made it hard even for her to recognize herself when she looked at herself afterwards in a mirror, and she started to wear some of her new clothes in order to grow accustomed to them, as Aunt Horry suggested, she had the strange sensation that she was not the old Karen March who had walked out of a London hospital and caught a train for the north of Scotland. She was a Karen March who was somewhat fearful of what lay ahead of her in the future because the promise of it was almost too much.
She was afraid lest something should happen at any moment to break the spell—the magic spell which held her at present and bound her to one man, out of all the other men in the world, who could make or break her, so far as future happiness was concerned. He who might have asked almost any woman to marry him, but had decided to ask her instead!
She was humbled and frightened at the same time because he had done so. Humbled because, in spite of her new complexion and her new clothes, she felt she had so little to offer him—frightened because it was like entrusting everything one held precious in life to the care of one person!
Nannie McBain, when she saw her again—and this time Karen walked to the cottage through all the brilliance and promise of a morning that was now throbbing with spring, and enough to arouse confidence in any heart, to lunch with her—did a great deal to prevent her indulging those treacherous fears which were no doubt largely caused by coming into such constant contact with anyone as physically perfect as Fiona Barrington. For without seeming to recognize the doubts Nannie talked a great deal of wholesome common sense, and it was certainly not her fault that a little witch-like woman of uncertain age, who was her nearest neighbor, and in the habit of popping in and drinking tea with her, paid a visit while Karen was still there.
This neighbor, whose name was Judith Drew, insisted on reading her tea-cup for her, after which she looked long and with strange dark eyes at Karen and told her that there was a ring at the bottom of her cup, but the wedding bells were muffled.
“You’ve got to be very careful,” she said. “It’s the light and the dark—the light and the dark who were made for one another, but who may miss one another altogether! ... You may be caught up in a mist that will wrap you about—you won’t see your way...”
Her voice was thin and hollow, and her dark eyes seemed to be gazing at Karen, and yet beyond her. Karen felt as if a cold draught had invaded the cosy kitchen, and outside the sun had vanished behind a cloud. The monotonous voice droned on:
“You’ll have to be very, very careful! You mustn’t lose your way, because you might never find it again, and the mist is thick. There is danger in the mist, and—the light and the dark! They were meant for one another!”
Ellen’s voice interrupted her sharply.
“That’s enough, Judith! You’re frightening the child, and anyway, I don’t believe in tea-leaves!”
“It’s not tea-leaves,” the obstinate, hollow voice asserted, when a little of the vagueness had passed away from her expression. “It’s all about her...” And she gazed at Karen as if fascinated.
Karen stood up, fumbling for her handbag and gloves.
“I’d better go,” she said. “If I’ve got to walk back.” But she felt she was longing to escape from this strange old woman with the fatalistic eyes.
Nannie accompanied her to the door.
“Don’t take any notice of what she said, bairnie,” she urged, giving her slim shoulders a comforting hug. “She’s a little bit funny in the head—we all know that—and she’s always telling one or other of us something which could frighten us half out of our wits. But you’ve got no cause to be afrai
d.”
When Iain did return very nearly a fortnight had passed since the morning he left Auchenwiel. He had sent a short note to Karen, telling her he was coming, and telling her, also, how impatient he was to see her. As he was not going to Craigie House he asked if a car could be sent to Inverlochie to meet him. Aunt Horry suggested at once that Karen and Fiona should go with it to meet him off the train, but at the last moment the wind swung into a bitterly cold quarter, and there was even a flurry of snow in the air. Looking at the darkening sky while safely protected by her supple mink, Fiona observed that it might be wiser if Karen did not accompany her.
“We don’t want you laid up for your own wedding, do we?” she said, smiling rather strangely at Karen, “and Iain would hardly thank us if we allowed you to run any risks. And in view of your recent history don’t you think it would be as well if you possessed your soul in patience for just a tiny while longer and remained at home here?”
Karen felt as if someone had suggested robbing her of something precious.
“Oh, but—” she began.
Fiona’s smile grew faintly teasing—quite kindly amused.
“My dear child, of course you’re terribly keen to see Iain, but we’re looking after you for him, and I don’t think it would be wise to let you go all the way to Inverlochie on such a day as this. We might have to hang about at the station, and—Don’t you agree with me, Aunt Horry?” she appealed to her hostess. “I’ve got to do some rather important shopping, otherwise I don’t think I’d go, either. And in any case I don’t suppose Iain will expect us when it’s starting to snow.”
Aunt Horry looked at Karen with slightly more understanding eyes, and voiced it as her opinion that Fiona was right, so after that there was little Karen could say in opposition to both of them. But as she watched the car drive away from the front of the house and realized that she had very definitely been left behind, the disappointment she felt was so acute that it seemed to crush her for a few moments.
Then she went upstairs to her room to remove her outdoor things, and because she knew Aunt Horry always rested in the afternoons she stayed there, miserably glued to one of her windows while the storm clouds swept onwards and the afternoon developed into quite a bright and pleasing afternoon after all. At least, when the chauffeur-driven car came gliding noiselessly back up the drive a little after half-past four there was blue sky overhead, and every promise of a brilliant sunset later on.
Karen felt her heart do that wild suffocating leap which nearly always robbed her of the ability to breathe easily for several seconds, as the rear door was swung open before the elderly chauffeur could desert his perch behind the wheel, and Iain stepped out on to the drive. He was wearing a heavy, belted overcoat, and as usual he was hatless, and the sunlight that was becoming tinged with a warm redness bathed the back of his sleek dark head as he bent to assist Fiona to alight.
Fiona was laughing, and her eyes appeared to be sparkling, and there was so much warm color in her cheeks that she might have just returned from a brisk and exhilarating walk on the moor instead of in a closed car from Inverlochie. She was partly loaded with parcels, and Iain relieved her of most of them, while Karen stood rigidly before her window and waited for the moment when he might look around as if in search of her. But Fiona’s parcels were unmanageable, and when he dropped one he had to stoop quickly to retrieve it, and his white teeth were flashing in his lean dark face when at last he turned towards the front of the house, with Fiona laughing up into his face.
Karen thought instantly how gay and attractive they both looked, and how perfectly matched. And as is someone had presented her with the means of looking backwards into the past she saw them as they must so often have appeared a little more than two years ago, when they were planning their wedding, and Fiona was a guest at Auchenwiel. No doubt they had done a lot of shopping together then, and he had carried her parcels from the car, and she had laughed up at him as she was laughing now. He had bent his sleek head down to her as he was bending it now, and inside Aunt Horry had waited for them.
Karen bit hard at her lower lip, and then told herself there was something wrong with her. Iain had returned and what more did she want?
She went to her dressing-table and looked at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a fine wool dress of a soft rose color, and when she had put it on directly after lunch she had thought it was most becoming. But now she was not so sure. Now she only knew that her excitement was making her shake at the knees, and it appeared to have driven all the color out of her face. Compared with Fiona’s glowing loveliness she was a slight and somewhat sickly ghost. There was nothing about her to compare with Fiona.
As she went downstairs her knees continued to knock, although when she neared the bottom she felt she wanted to rush into the drawing-room and hurl herself into Iain’s arms and cling to him—to pour out to him her thankfulness that he was back.
But she knew that in no circumstances could she behave like that with the eyes of the other two women upon her, and she walked sedately into the room—sedately and, obviously, with almost painful shyness.
Aunt Horry was sitting in her usual comfortable chair near the fire, with the tea-equipage that had just been wheeled in drawn up close to her. Fiona, her mink coat cast carelessly over the back of a chair, was lying back gracefully in a corner of a Chesterfield, and on the rug in front of the fireplace stood Iain. He had taken up the attitude male members of a Victorian household used to take up, his hands clasped behind his back while the blaze from the fire warmed him and threw into prominence his finely-held shoulders and his beautifully-shaped head and neck, and his eyes dwelt with a kind of complacent pleasure on the picture of the two women in front of him. Karen stood there in the doorway watching him for possibly a full second before he noticed that the door had opened, and then his head went up with a quick movement and his eyes looked directly at her.
Karen had longed so much for this moment that she could only stand foolishly gazing back at him, her blue eyes dark and intense and uncertain in her noticeably pale face, her pale lips quivering a little—for she hadn’t bothered to add any more lipstick before she went downstairs, and she had bitten most of it off during the afternoon. Then Aunt Horry made a pleased sound as if welcoming her, and Iain took a few quick strides forward to greet her.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her face. Desperation made her eyes darken still more as she fought to prevent herself from flinging herself upon him, and his eyes were quite inscrutable as they studied her.
He said gently:
“Fiona told me you were not quite up to the journey this afternoon, and she suggested you stay behind. How are you feeling now?”
Karen’s eyes widened for a moment, and she looked towards Fiona—who was, however, complacently smiling at her. Aunt Horry was busily pouring tea and she obviously had not heard, so Karen remained silent for a moment and then answered in a strange, tight little voice:
“I’m perfectly all right. How—how are you?”
He did not kiss her, he scarcely touched her, but his eyes and his look were gentle and caressing—as if, she thought, she, was so desperately fragile that anything in the nature of rough treatment might harm her. Then he put her into a chair near the fire, brought her a cup of tea when Aunt Horry had poured it out, and took up his position again in the centre of the rug, addressing his conversation to all three of them impartially.
Karen knew this was so utterly unlike anything she had imagined when he returned that it was as much as she could do to swallow even one mouthful of the hot buttered toast which was so plentiful on these occasions, and she all but scalded her throat through sipping hurriedly at her tea. But Mrs. Barrington lay back comfortably on her Chesterfield couch, and she was so plainly relaxed that Karen became more and more conscious of her own nervous movements. At the same time she was quite sure that whenever the lustrous golden eyes of the widow were turned in her direction there was something of a cat’
s smug self-satisfaction under the sweeping lashes, and behind it there was that subdued sparkle of amusement, too. And it was amusement in connection with Karen’s own discomfiture.
The tea-time dragged itself out, with Iain giving them a humorous account of some of the things that had happened to him in London. Aunt Horry beamed up at him affectionately, and although the clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes Fiona made no attempt to bestir herself or to think of dressing for the evening. Aubrey produced his pastel sketch of Karen, and it was duly admired, although Karen herself thought the admiration was a little perfunctory. Then at last Aunt Horatia said that she must go upstairs, while Aubrey returned the portrait to his temporary studio, and Fiona stood up with her languid, effortless grace and picked up her mink coat in preparation to depart.
But even then she did not depart hurriedly, and before she did so she looked towards Karen and smiled at her in a sweetly taunting fashion.
“I know very well what Karen is thinking,” she said. “That I’ve had you all the afternoon, and now it’s her turn!” The smile became brilliant, almost seductive, as it swept round to Iain’s face. “So I’m going to leave you two love-birds alone together!” And this time the mockery in her voice was unmistakable as she vanished gracefully from the room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When they were alone Karen felt as if the power to say anything at all had suddenly deserted her, and she was so overwhelmingly conscious of Iain standing near to her on the rug that she was afraid to lift her eyes to his face lest the expression in them betrayed her.